I dressed and gave parties. I
took lessons in singing of Sig. Folderol, and in dancing of Mons.
Pigeonwing, and could sing cavatinas and galop galops with the best of
them. Ma said I was an angel, and Pa declared I was perfect. But none of
the young men said so. My dear Fourteen, it may be just so with you.
Your ma and pa may say you are angelic and perfect; but where's the use
of it, if nobody else can be made to see it? I tried my best to catch
the young men in my net. But, provoking things, they wouldn't be caught.
Between ourselves--mind, don't blab it out--young men are the greatest
noodles that were ever put upon the face of the earth. I never yet saw
one that could be depended upon to stand by. I am sure, as you know, no
one ever stood by me--when there was a parson at hand. At fourteen I
didn't much care where they stood, if it wasn't on my corns. Twenty
years later I shouldn't have been so particular. But I don't much mind
now, bless you! _You_ wont at forty-four. There's nothing to these young
men. All talk, pretence, audacity, and paper collar, I assure you. I've
studied all of them. They are the same now as then.
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